


Blueberry Muffins at Midnight

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, HIV/AIDS Crisis, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27071614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: Amid the AIDS crisis of the 80s, Achilles stops keeping track of the friends he has lost over the years. When he runs into Patroclus at a funeral, the two find themselves revisiting a love from the past.Oneshot.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 87





	Blueberry Muffins at Midnight

In his days abroad, he would lie awake under his mosquito net listening to the sounds of the beetle. Just him, and that incessant clicking. 

_Ticking and buzzing_. 

Right next to his ear, the pitch blackness all around him like a veil over his eyes. Sooner or later, he would find his pulse matching the rhythm. Was his own blood like music, finding its way into his head no matter what? 

Back then, the silence had been peaceful. 

Today, it gnaws at him, his insides freezing up like blue gel in an ice pack. 

He’s an ice man, he thinks. 

There are shadows underneath the doorway, the footsteps fading away. 

Every day, the man knocks at his door. And every day, he sits still as a statue, the walls of his apartment turning white as the ice blocks of an igloo. His eyes remain glued to the hands on the clock, ticking and clicking, until the minute hand has made three rounds. 

It’s always three minutes, until the knocking stops and the footsteps fade completely. 

He’s an ice man. And here, it’s winter all year round.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**December 1985**

He doesn’t remember the eulogy. His thoughts are on those two clouds in the sky, the barest sliver of blue patchwork concealed in the edges. They fascinate him.  
How does such brightness stay put beneath the swirls of grey? 

People around him are starting to leave, and he almost gets bumped into until someone jabs him in the elbow to get him to move. He opens his mouth to apologize - but it’s just Nestor’s tired eyes looking back at him. 

A small surge of shame washes up in him then. He blinks, looking around him at the disassembly. He’s been standing right here the whole time, and he’s missed it. Nestor walks away before he can say anything. After all, it was his son they just buried. 

The chill wind beats against his cheeks, and he pulls his collar up to shield himself against it. _Why didn’t you just bring a scarf_ , he can hear the exasperated voice. And then a shuffling; Patroclus digging around in his pocket until he finds a spare, wrapping it around him despite his complaints. 

Just as he thinks of this, he catches sight of a lone figure in the distance. A streak of black, like everyone else on this day of hushed voices. But this person might as well be a flaming torch against the darkening sky, as far as he’s concerned. He’d recognize that gait anywhere. 

His feet carry him before he knows what he’s doing, and he’s cursing and rejoicing all at once. Apparently his heart hasn’t quite gotten the message. 

He knows why his feet move without his approval - because it’s all they know to do. For years, they have moved forward, moved _towards_ \- to tell them to do any different, well … he hasn’t learned how. 

Patroclus doesn’t look surprised to see him. They nod at each other, and he’s confused at how his chest contracts. He thought it would be more painful. He thought … It’s as if his mind is in on something his body isn’t. Seeing Patroclus this way shouldn’t feel so normal. The last time they’d seen each other - he closes his eyes - gods, the last time. 

“Sorry I didn’t say hello earlier,” Patroclus says, and what a relief it is to hear his voice again. He’s played that voice again and again, a broken record in his head - and it’s just the same. 

A little more life, a little more sadness. That’s all. 

Patroclus’ eyes are puffy, and his nose is red. But if he was crying, he’s stopped now. They just buried his best friend, after all. 

“Sorry I didn’t either,” Achilles replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say. His fingers twitch, an unstoppable instinct to find Patroclus’ skin in a touch, the smallest pat on the shoulder or an arm around the waist. How long he’s gone without it. And he has to remind himself that that’s the way it has to be, now. 

They trudge through the grass together, calmly weaving past the headstones until they reach the entrance of the cemetery. People are already getting out umbrellas, even though it isn’t quite raining. 

“You saw that blue sky? It was struggling.” He has never been able to keep his mouth shut for long. 

Patroclus flicks him a glance, half amused, half resigned.  
“Fitting, don’t you think? The way he lived his life.” He’s talking about their dead friend, but Achilles can’t help tensing up at the words. 

He knows it isn’t a deliberate jab - that’s not Patroclus’ way at all. But isn’t it the truth? Isn’t it the way _he’s_ lived his life, a constant struggle against the grey, only for it to win in the end? 

He realizes he hasn’t talked to Patroclus in a year. It feels like no time has passed.  
\----------

The phone cord tangles and untangles around his finger, twists and untwists. It makes him think of noodles, which in turn makes him think of the Chinese restaurant they all used to frequent together after a night out on the town. It makes him tear up a little, and he’s surprised. 

He thumbs the wetness away from his eyes as Diomedes’ voice drones on from the other side. Eventually, the other man runs out of words. 

“Saw you talking to him after the burial.” 

“Hmm?” It takes him a while to register what Diomedes is saying. 

“You know.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

There’s a silence on the other end, and he can practically see Diomedes scratching his head, the gruff look on his face. 

“Must’ve been hard for him. Losing his job and all.” 

He cocks his head to one side. “What?” 

“He didn’t tell you about it, did he?” 

“Why would he? Wait … lose his job? Why?” As far as he knows, Patroclus was recently up for a raise. Nearly a decade in the public education system, and there wasn’t a single teacher at the school who wasn’t singing his praises. 

More silence, and he can hear Diomedes swallowing. 

“He’s a fucking history teacher. Why would he lose his job?” 

His heartbeat quickens when Diomedes doesn’t answer. 

“Because.”

“Because?” 

“... _Because_.” 

After he’s hung up, he sits on the floor next to the telephone for a while. All the arguments they had, the colleagues from Patroclus’ school he didn’t want to mix with. Out of fear, someone finding out, one or both of their careers ruined because of it. And just like that, it comes crashing down. 

Diomedes didn’t even have to say the words.  
\--------------------------------------

He regrets coming here even as his fist is thumping on the door. The hinge creaks a little every time he comes in contact with it, and the thought flashes in him - if he could move the world, if he could break down everything that stood in his way - not the first time he’s thought like this, a defiant cry against the helplessness that surrounds him. 

The door cracks open an inch and Patroclus peeks out, looking irritated. His expression smooths into weariness when he sees it’s Achilles.

“What do you want?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Achilles demands. He doesn’t expect his voice to come out so _shaky_. 

Patroclus stares at him for a moment, face turning a little red when he realizes that Achilles knows. He shakes it off, like a bird ruffling its feathers.  
It’s such a Patroclus thing to do that Achilles feels his anger start to ebb. Never fazed for long, this man. 

“Won’t you come in?” Patroclus leaves the door wide open as he turns to go back inside. Achilles hesitates before he steps into the apartment. Every inch of him buzzes with the familiarity, this feeling of _home_. But it isn’t, he tells himself. Not any more. 

The television is off and he feels a stab at the sight. This time of night, they would have been huddled underneath the blankets on the couch, bickering over the remote control. Instead, the living room is bathed in silence, and the only light comes from the kitchen. 

Patroclus has two steaming mugs on the table for them before he can even say _I shouldn’t have come_. Leans against the counter and sips from his mug, eyes flitting back and forth, never quite resting on Achilles. 

“I got your card,” Patroclus says, lips curving a little into a small smile. His eyes are wide and uncertain above that smile, his fingers drumming nervously against the mug. 

Achilles’ knees go weak, thinks they’ll buckle and he’ll fall against the ground. Maybe he’ll crawl up to Patroclus, bury his face in his hip and beg him to take him back. _Let’s pretend it never happened_ , he’ll say. _Me and you, always_. 

He has to fight himself to chase away those thoughts. 

“Pretty,” Patroclus says again, opening a drawer and digging out the card. A picture of a hummingbird on the front. 

Achilles remembers where he got it, wandering around an obscure city in the middle of the night. Hummingbirds, so hard to capture. It had made him think of Patroclus. He’d regretted it the instant he mailed the damn thing. 

They stand there in the kitchen, Patroclus holding his hummingbird card, and gods, he wishes he knew what to say. Where did the anger go? Where is all his strength? It’s as though the few seconds he’s allowed himself to forget have sucked it away completely. 

“How long?” he asks, after a minute of chewing on the words. 

“Don’t know,” Patroclus replies. His eyes find Achilles’, and the smile never quite leaves.  
“I was sick for a bit. Then they told me I had it. But I’m better now, you know?” 

“Better?” Achilles looks him up and down. 

He doesn’t look sick, it’s true. But neither did Antilochus. Meriones. Ajax. Not at first. All the friends they’ve lost, the eulogies he did not listen to. 

He remembers the early days, the confusion. The very first article in the paper, how they’d puzzled over a _gay cancer_. Back then, there wasn’t very much that could have interrupted their lives. Now, of course … he’s attended fourteen funerals in the span of six months. He has names crossed out in his address book, to remind him who he can’t call any more. 

“What are you going to do?” he asks Patroclus. “They can’t really fire you for that, can they?” 

“They did.” Patroclus’ expression wavers, then, and he takes a seat.

“Sit with me?” 

“Patroclus.” 

Maybe there’s no use talking about it. But his lips won’t stop moving, wishing so badly he could find the right words, the magic words that will take it all away. 

He wants Patroclus to be _angrier_. 

But that’s not Patroclus’ way at all. He watches Patroclus sip from his mug, sees his feet shuffle on the floor, listens to the quiet of the room. There’s an overwhelming sense of finality to it all, any glimpse of hope pulled away by the rush of calm stillness that falls over them. 

And he thinks, this is worse than any kind of anger.  
\--------------------------------------------

Patroclus doesn’t ask him to leave. He comes back every day. Doesn’t know why. Maybe he needs proof. Or maybe he needs to fool himself. If he can see the other man’s chest rising and falling, the liveliness of his expression, hear the steadiness of his voice … maybe he can convince himself that it isn’t so bad. That the final threshold is not one door away. 

He waits for Patroclus to bring it up. How he’s here all the time, when a year ago he did the exact opposite. He knows he’s let Patroclus down. But the other man never rubs it in. Never says a word on the subject. 

Instead, they sit in the kitchen. They talk. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asks. It comes out smaller than he intended. He doesn’t look at Patroclus. 

“Of what?” 

He stares at him. 

Patroclus looks at him, as though daring him to say it. “Dying?” 

He lets out a chuckle when Achilles doesn’t respond. 

“Future’s not ours to see, right? Doris Day sings it best.” 

Achilles frowns. 

“Don’t you remember?” Patroclus asks. 

He starts to hum a little, the song that has made itself a part of Achilles over the years. 

“Stop.” 

“I still have the record,” Patroclus says. He jerks his chin at the shelf in the living room. 

“Put it on for me, won’t you?” 

He’s slammed his fist against the table before he realizes it. It makes the cups rattle, and he watches Patroclus’ reflection in the hot liquid rather than looking at the man himself. 

What are they playing at? 

He’s biting his lip so hard he feels the skin crack under his teeth. Patroclus doesn’t say anything for a while. 

“You used to love that song.” 

Achilles lifts his head, finds Patroclus watching him. The look in his eyes … he can’t stand it. Gods, he can’t stand it. 

“Haven’t played it since you left. Didn’t feel right, you know?” 

He closes his eyes. He nods. “Okay.” 

He gets up, walks over to the shelf, and combs through the records until he finds the right one. His hands work the record player as automatically as he knows to walk, to breathe. 

He grips the edge of the table hard as the first notes start to play. How he used to tease Patroclus for listening to tunes like this. But there’s something about hearing it now, the corny old-fashionedness of the song, that tugs sharply at something inside him. Brings him back to when times were good. When songs like this were merely something to laugh at, to croon at each other as a joke, to roll his eyes over because it was six in the morning and he could hear Patroclus singing it in the shower. 

The melody washes over him, and doesn’t it hurt. It’s a hurt he’ll have to get used to, if their song is going to keep playing until it can play no more.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**March 1986**

People ask if they’re in love again and he doesn’t know what to tell them. It’s true, they do spend an awful lot of time with each other for people who aren’t together anymore. He meets Patroclus after work and they walk down the street. 

One block always turns into two. Two blocks into three. And so it goes. 

They watch the snow melting off the pavement, two sets of footprints marring the perfect white. He knows Patroclus hates the cold - yet here he is, walking beside him, his nose and cheeks red from the barren wind. 

It gets easier to talk. 

“Tell me about your adventures overseas,” Patroclus requests, and he does. 

He’s afraid they’ll fall back into patterns, that he’ll have to cut it short before they both realize it isn’t good for them. But curiously enough, neither of them are interested in dwelling on the past. 

The moon shines bright on Patroclus’ face when they end their walk. He finds himself looking - checking - to see if he’s changed. He shakes it off, because moonlight can be deceiving. Maybe Patroclus is better. But then, who’s deceiving who? 

They pass by the bakery on the way back and the bag of pastries is always in Patroclus’ hand by the time they reach his apartment. Sweet tooth, Achilles thinks, fondly. Certain things don’t change. They split it between them, and it goes unspoken that they’ll meet again tomorrow.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

If he thought work would be different after his year off, it isn’t. Just as easy convincing Menelaus to give him his job back as it was getting it in the first place. The company is going downhill, he thinks. 

He sits and types on his computer, and looks outside the window where the roads are bare now. Always so cloudy. He misses the sun, and can’t help but think of it all the way down to the lobby for his lunch break. 

He’s so caught up in his head he nearly misses Patroclus in the hallway, looking around furtively as he waits on a bench. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I -” Patroclus starts. He’s clutching a cardboard box, and there’s a suitcase next to him. His cheeks have gone a little pale, and Achilles catches sight of the embarrassment in his eyes. 

“What’s happened?” he asks gently, steering Patroclus away to avoid people passing by. 

“It’s the apartment.” Patroclus smiles sheepishly.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to go to.” 

Achilles waves it away. “You know I don’t mind.” 

Patroclus is silent, fingers rubbing the edges of the box until they fray. 

Achilles frowns, seeing his discomfort. 

“Patroclus,” he says. “What’s happened?” 

“They’re evicting me,” Patroclus says, so embarrassed he can’t even get the words out properly. His gaze is flickering again, this way and that, not knowing where to look. 

Achilles’ hand curls into a fist, hidden in his pocket. 

“Why.” He doesn’t expect his voice to come out the way it does. 

Cold and hard, iron. 

Patroclus doesn’t answer, looks at his feet instead.  
\---

He marches Patroclus back to the apartment, not caring that his lunch break is over. He has a good mind to have a word with the landlord, but once they’re up the stairs Patroclus pushes him back and shakes his head. 

“I’ll um … get my stuff. And then we’ll go, okay?” 

He stares back uncertainly, but lets Patroclus lead the way. He notices how Patroclus’ shoulders tense the closer they get. 

He sees why.

Standing out from the other apartments, Patroclus’ white door is spattered with spray paint. The words _DIE FAGGOT_ greet them like lamb’s blood on the wood. 

He sees Patroclus’ hands shake as he fumbles for his keys, and he has never felt more hatred in his life. 

“Hey,” he says, as Patroclus struggles to unlock the door. 

He places a hand on the wrist, takes the key and unlocks it for him. He swings the door open and they go inside, slams it shut again so the message is out of their sight. 

Patroclus looks at him, he looks at Patroclus. 

“You’ll stay with me, okay?” 

Patroclus swallows. “I didn’t want to -”

“Stop. You’ll stay with me,” he says again, firmly. “Let’s get your stuff.” 

After a moment, Patroclus nods. “Okay.”  
\---

They pile all of Patroclus’ things into the trunk of his car, and drive off without a single glance back.  
\---

The phone is ringing like crazy by the time they get back to his place. Menelaus, demanding to know why he’s run off in the middle of a work day. He ignores it, letting Patroclus get settled instead. 

“You can put your stuff anywhere you want,” he says.  
He smiles at Patroclus, waits for him to return it. 

The smile is a little watery when it comes, and his chest hurts to see it. So he grabs one of the boxes and roots through it, finds another, until he’s gotten hold of Patroclus’ precious record player. 

“What are you in the mood for?”  
He walks around the living room, finds a place to hook it up, not letting Patroclus see how frantically his hands move. 

“Thank you,” Patroclus says instead, softly.  
“You don’t have to do this for me.” 

His eyes find Patroclus’. 

But he has to, he wants to say. Because a world where he wouldn’t do anything for the other man isn’t a world he knows. 

“Choose something.” He points at the box full of Patroclus’ records.  
“Too quiet in here, don’t you think?” 

Patroclus’ smile widens, and it’s the first of its kind he’s seen in a long time. 

People ask if they’re in love again. He’s never stopped.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 **June**

He can sometimes forget Patroclus is sick. A few long weekends with a bad cold, but then it’s all better. He goes to sleep at night and wakes up the next morning, and Patroclus is at the kitchen table, looking fresh and healthy as he always has been. 

They don’t talk about it. He doesn’t think Patroclus avoids it - it’s him. He doesn’t bring it up, forces the words down even when he feels he’ll choke on them. He’s weak, he knows. 

Behind Patroclus’ eyes he can see it lingering - the question, wondering if he’ll say it. He remembers the night he pounded on Patroclus’ door, the anger that wrapped itself around him like a blinding haze. 

It’s a different kind of rage he feels, now. Low and seething, eating at him in the darkness as he tosses and turns in his bed. 

They get a call from Diomedes on a Sunday. There’s a bird’s nest outside the kitchen window and Patroclus checks the eggs every morning. Can’t wait to see them hatch, for sure. 

“Three of them,” Patroclus says to him, and he can’t help grinning as he picks up the telephone. 

He can’t hear Diomedes over the sobbing. 

“Di? What is it?” 

His chest clenches, because the knowledge is there. He doesn’t have to ask again. 

“Glaucus,” Diomedes manages. 

Another name to cross out in his address book.  
\---

He doesn’t understand why Diomedes asks to meet them in the hospital parking lot. They find their friend crouched next to his car, mouth covered in a struggle to contain himself. 

“He’s in there,” Diomedes gets out, wiping his eyes. 

“What?”

He sees Patroclus go white when he looks into the car. In the back seat is a body bag, stuffed in unceremoniously. Diomedes is covered in sweat, having hauled the entire thing by himself into his car. 

“What the fuck,” Achilles breathes. 

No other words come to mind. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“The morgue wouldn’t take him,” Diomedes explained, voice thick but managing to collect himself.  
“Wouldn’t touch his body. We have to find a place that will take him, Achilles.” 

He grips Achilles’ arms. “We have to find a place. _We have to_. He can’t -” 

“We will,” Achilles assures him, because Diomedes is getting a little hysterical. In moments like this, the only thing he knows to do is reassure.  
\---

They drive out to every funeral home in the city. They get turned away, at first. He sees Diomedes’ hope draining away with every second, sitting in the back holding his dead lover’s body. Patroclus is so still in the passenger seat that he almost forgets he’s there. 

Eventually, they find one that will take the body. 

“They want two thousand dollars,” Achilles says. 

He watches as Diomedes’ shoulders slump, defeated. 

“There’s an ATM around the corner. Wait for me.” 

Diomedes doesn’t even protest. 

His next paycheck isn’t due for three weeks, but he doesn’t fucking care. He curses when the machine only lets him withdraw five hundred dollars. He and Patroclus take turns, and then they walk two blocks to find another machine. 

Glaucus’ body is scheduled for cremation the next day.  
\---

Diomedes has lost his voice. They sit in silence, because where else is there to go? They’ll be back tomorrow to collect the ashes. 

Most of life is just waiting, he thinks. He never knew death was this way too. 

He realizes Patroclus isn’t with them anymore. He gets up, walks around the funeral home until he reaches a back alley. Patroclus is standing by himself, his shadow long and stooped against the brick wall. 

His face is turned away, but Achilles gives him a moment anyway. He waits until Patroclus sneaks a glance at him. 

“You know what?” Patroclus asks, and his voice cracks a little. 

“What?” 

“I’m going to die like that.” 

He thinks a part of him breaks, hearing that. 

“No, you won’t.” 

Patroclus hangs his head, and that’s it. He can’t stand it anymore. He crosses the space between them and pulls him into his arms, feels Patroclus slacken against him immediately, the fabric of his shirt growing warm with tears. 

“I’m going to die like that,” Patroclus sobs. 

He tightens his grip around him, because suddenly, he is seized with fear at how true it could be. He shakes his head, as if that one motion could chase it away. 

“You _won’t_.” 

He wishes he knew how to do this. Patroclus was always the hopeful one. What do they have between them, when all that hope is sapped away? 

Patroclus looks up at him, and it comes rushing through. How long has he been fooling himself?

“You could have asked me to go with you,” Patroclus says, softly. 

It’s not an accusation. But it’s been lingering in the background ever since that day at the funeral. 

“I know,” he whispers, and kisses Patroclus’ forehead. He knows. 

He closes his eyes, because this is the moment he makes up his mind. It should have been something he decided long ago, but he was too selfish then. Too afraid. 

“I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

Patroclus lays his head on his shoulder, but he lifts the other man’s chin, needing to look into his eyes. Needing him to see the truth of his words.

“From now on. I’ll take care of you.” 

Patroclus stares back at him for a moment. 

“Okay.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**August**

The birds are chirping outside the kitchen window, and it makes him smile. Three of them. 

He sets down his briefcase and looks around for Patroclus. Finds him in the bedroom, where he usually is these days. Laying on his side, breathing evenly. 

He climbs onto the bed, nestles close to Patroclus, feels him wake up. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi,” Patroclus smiles back at him, eyelids still half-closed with sleep. He must have been out of it the whole day. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Patroclus yawns, and sits up a little.  
“I’m just - so tired.”

He knows. His eyes sting when he thinks of it, but he blinks it away and pulls Patroclus closer to him. He feels the smoothness of his skin under his fingertips, smells the scent of Patroclus’ shampoo. 

Patroclus has always been skinny, but the weight has dropped from him rapidly ever since they diagnosed him with Kaposi’s sarcoma. They’re in and out of the hospital these days, and being back home like this feels like a long vacation. 

“Want something to eat?” 

“Muffins?” 

He’s surprised. Patroclus doesn’t get an appetite for food much anymore. 

“The blueberry ones, from that bakery.”

He groans. It’s such a long way from his place, and he doesn’t like to go near Patroclus’ old apartment if he can help it. 

“The things I do for you. Come on, get dressed.”  
\---

It’s a cold day for August, the wind coming by in great gusts. The bakery is as busy as ever, and they line up outside for its famous pastries. 

The smell wafts all the way outside the shop, people stopping on the pavement with their steaming cups of coffee. 

They get to the end of the line and the smiling server greets them. 

“What can I get you today?” 

“Four of those, please.” Patroclus reaches up and points at the blueberry muffins on display. 

The server’s smile fades when she catches sight of his hand, the purple lesions stark against his skin. They haven’t quite spread to his face, so he can still go out without it being much of a worry. Until now.

Patroclus catches himself and quickly removes his hand, clearing his throat a little.  
“Um … four.” 

The server pointedly ignores him, waving along the next customer in line. 

Achilles feels his face heat up, fingers curling against the granite counter. 

“Excuse me,” he starts, barely keeping the iron from his voice. 

“He asked for _four_.” 

He sees the server start to panic a little, but she keeps her face turned away from him and Patroclus. The next customer places an order, darting glances suspiciously at them. 

“Come on,” Patroclus mumbles, starting to drag him away. 

“What, you don’t serve people with AIDS? Should have put a sign up on the door!” Achilles yells, not caring about the heads turning in their direction. 

Patroclus looks mortified. “Let’s go, please.” 

Achilles looks down at him. The expression on Patroclus’ face is the only thing that makes him give in. 

They leave the shop, standing on the corner for a while to let it sink in. 

“Should have worn gloves,” Patroclus mutters forlornly. 

He drives them up to the nearest grocery store. Patroclus’ hand is in his as he storms through the aisles, as though the mere sight of them wrongs him. 

“Where are the fucking baking supplies?” he demands. 

He finds the aisle and grabs flour, sugar, baking soda. Tosses them into the cart before looking around for the dairy section. 

“Sorry,” Patroclus says. His voice is small. 

Achilles turns to him. 

“Don’t you apologize.” 

“I -”

“You want muffins, you’re going to fucking get them. Okay?” 

He takes Patroclus’ face in his, thumbs at his cheeks until he smiles. He has to let the anger go for a minute. 

Patroclus grips his hands, squeezes his fingers tight. 

“Okay?” Achilles asks again. 

“Okay.” 

It’s nearly midnight by the time they get back. Achilles sets the groceries down, wonders how the fuck he’s going to make blueberry muffins when he’s never cooked a day in his life. 

“Shit,” he says, as he puts the butter in the fridge. 

“I forgot the blueberries.” 

Patroclus’ laugh echoes through the kitchen, and he feels two arms come around him, Patroclus pressing kisses to his cheek and his face and his neck.  
\---

The next night they find another bakery and he gets _ten_ of the damn things. They sit curled up in front of the window with the bird nest and eat. It’s so dark, but he doesn’t bother turning on a light. 

Afterwards, he leans forwards and kisses the crumbs from Patroclus’ lips. Feels the other man hesitate a little, before letting their mouths meet, warm against the other.  
It’s like coming home. He doesn’t know how long he’s needed this, but his hand is on Patroclus’ back and in his hair, and - how good he feels. 

They end up on the bed, and the months leave him.  
A chilly day in the grass, footsteps through the snow, a back alley behind a funeral home. It fades away like the last stages of a dream, right before waking up. 

He kisses Patroclus and gets kissed back and he thinks it’s going to last forever. He’ll make it last forever, playing in his head over and over like one of Patroclus’ shiny records. 

“We shouldn’t,” Patroclus gasps, when he reaches down to undo the buttons on his pants. 

It breaks the spell a little, but he leans back and traces Patroclus’ face in the moonlight, follows the silhouette with his eyes. 

“Okay.”

Patroclus takes a breath, moves up a little and strokes his hair.  
“There’s a … test ... you can take now.” 

“Yeah.” 

He knows all about it. Got a call from Diomedes at two o’ clock in the morning to find out his friend is positive. 

“You should take it.”

“I know.” 

They lie in silence, letting the peacefulness of the room wash over them. They don’t fall asleep, not even as the hours pass and it starts to get light outside. 

It’s when the first rays of sunlight hit his face, and he hears Patroclus humming himself to sleep, that old tune that Doris Day sang best. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying, until Patroclus’s fingers find his and wraps around them tight.  
\---

The birds outside the window grow bigger, feathers blooming, wings fluttering. They migrate south as the weather gets colder. 

Patroclus is looking out the window at their empty nest, a bundle of twigs against the glass. He presses his hand against the window, and it leaves a foggy print. 

“Never stopped loving you,” Achilles says, because the words have been waiting to come out of him and now they do, in a great sweep like the wind carrying those birds. 

Patroclus looks back at him and smiles. 

The leaves might be falling outside but it’s evergreen inside their walls, the roots digging deep into the soil and the branches swaying.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The months that follow are the happiest he’s ever been. And the saddest, too. 

Patroclus is always tired. He can’t sleep at night because his muscles ache too badly, but during the day he’s out like a light. 

It’s the moments when he opens his eyes, a sudden bright awareness shining through, that Achilles grasps and holds on to. 

The rest of Patroclus is hard to look at. He’s gotten so emaciated Achilles doesn’t know how he can stand. But his smile is still the same, and Achilles has loved it since he knew the meaning of the word. 

They are only remembered for as long as the last person who knew them remains. 

And he realizes - he might be the last person who truly knows who Patroclus is. 

All the names of the dead, echoes of laughter from nights out in the city. Their group of friends, once young men whose cares were thrown to the wind. Patroclus wasn’t well enough to attend Diomedes’ funeral, but the memory of times past is kept alive for as long as he breathes. 

And Achilles knows he will do the same for Patroclus. So hard to capture, he is. 

The hummingbird on the postcard. He’s glad he sent it, now. What else is there to describe what Patroclus was to him?  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**January 1987**

The first snow of the year drifts down that day. 

“Pretty,” Patroclus says, watching it from his hospital bed. 

“Yeah?” 

“Always hated the cold. But isn’t it beautiful, though.”

“The harshest things sometimes are.” 

The nurse comes in to check on Patroclus. He hates how she hesitates before she touches him, hands wrapped in gloves. Patroclus still has the will to joke about it, but Achilles’ humor has left him. 

He’s brought the record player to Patroclus’ room but there’s nowhere to hook it up. It lies in the corner, unused. 

Most of life is just waiting. How many times has he sat here waiting for Patroclus to get discharged? 

“It’s going to take a while before we get a few inches,” he observes. 

The snowfall is framed against the hospital wall, and he’s grateful at least for a glimpse of the world away from here. 

“Mm. Wake me up when it’s white outside.” 

“Will do.” 

He kisses Patroclus’ ear, pulls the blanket around him. 

Patroclus doesn’t wake up. 

He trudges back to his empty apartment, the record player in his arms. Leaves it in the living room, and goes to sit by the window where life has frozen around him.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**March 1987, Present Day**

“I was just wondering, if, you know … you got my flyers.” 

He stares at the man. Nods a little. A pile of wasted paper crumpled up in his trash can. He doesn’t mention that. 

“Been trying to reach you. Diomedes always spoke highly of you -”

“What do you want?” 

“We’ve been planning a demonstration. Always looking for new people to join, you know?” 

He frowns at the man. 

“How could I possibly help? I’m not even a part of your organization.” 

“Well, we thought - since you work in publishing, you could have contacts.” 

The man looks at him nervously, like he knows Achilles is going to say no. 

“He was a good man.”

Achilles starts, insides shrinking a little. 

“What do you know about him?” 

“My kid was in his class at school.” 

“Oh yeah? Where were you when he got fired, then?”

A length of silence. 

“We can’t do this alone, Achilles,” the man says. He stands up, walks over to the living room window where the record player has long been abandoned. 

“You got tested?”

“Uh-huh.” 

The man turns to look at him, searches his eyes for the truth in there. 

“Look, we’ve all lost friends. Lovers. But there are still people out there, people who laugh and fall in love and risk their lives to do it. Don’t you think they deserve a chance? Don’t you think you and I deserve a chance, holding on to whatever there is left for us?”

“I had my chance,” Achilles says. 

He looks out the kitchen window, at the bird’s nest that’s still there. No amount of snow could have wedged it away from its tight grip against the glass. 

It comes back to him, before he can shut his eyes. 

Patroclus’ handprint against the window, a wordless goodbye to the birds that flew south. 

Maybe one day, they would come back. 

Three of them. 

He’s an ice man, he thinks. In his igloo against the world, where it’s winter all year round. 

But when spring comes, the ice starts to thaw. The birds chirp, wings fluttering. And the music plays again.


End file.
